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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28114344">For those liminal hearts</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talontales/pseuds/Talontales'>Talontales</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Final Fantasy XIV</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Adventure, Dialogue Heavy, Drama, F/F, Flirting, Polyamorous Characters, Romance, Timeline: ARR, Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 23:07:21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,101</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28114344</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talontales/pseuds/Talontales</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Three interlocked souls chosen by Hydaelyn get swept up in matters of saving Eorzea with the Scions of the Seventh Dawn. The question is, are the Scions themselves prepared for the personalities and the baggage which these women drag around?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>F!WoL/Yda/F!WoL/Y'shtola</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. One hand unclenched</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p><b>Main characters:</b> Taewyda Shaurnaut <i>(Female Roegadyn Warrior of Light)</i>, Joltin Dazkar <i>(Female Au ra Warrior of Light)</i>, Zabine Shaurnaut <i>(Trans-female Elezen/Miqo'te Warrior of Light)</i>, Yda Hext, Y'shtola Rhul, Yugiri Mistwalker (later)<br/><b>Secondary characters:</b> G'malahn Adjel <i>(Male Miqo'te engineer OC)</i>, Itsuko Miura <i>(Female Hyur Samurai OC)</i>, Alphinaud Leveilleur, Alisaie Leveilleu<br/><b>Romances:</b> Taewyda/Yda/Joltin/Y'shtola</p><p>
  <i>Hi there, I'm Claire Talon and I'm not sure what I'm doing</i>
</p><p>
  <i>This fic is shaped with a basis of that there are three Warriors of Light and not one, but overall, it'll just be a bunch of drama, shipping and random romantic moments. Not a harem story, but a poly one. Essentially very self-indulgent, so if you don't enjoy NPC/PC stuff, this is probably not the story for you.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>Also, I'll be jumping in between various stages of the in-game story, so if you haven't played very far into the game (or at all), you'll likely be confused. But I will try to point out when these events occur.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>Edit Jan 5th 2021: Originally I was gonna write all the storylines into one giant fic, but I've changed my mind and decided to split them up. This one is distinctly for A Realm Reborn.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Lastly, I have <a href="https://creativebankruptcies.blogspot.com/2020/12/ffxiv-characters.html">a blog post</a> with some profiles, screenshots and such, for references to the WoLs's looks.</i>
</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>She’s a bloody mountain of meat, isn’t she?</p><p>…was Yda’s first coherent, albeit awfully unfitting impression at beholding the lady who just pulled in out of literal nowhere to chip in with her and Papalymo’s endeavor. The two of them are out in the lush, bountiful and coincidentally unsafe woods of the Black Shroud, outside Gridania, counteracting a flux in the aetheric flow which they’d discovered. No sooner had they leapt into this errand than a pack of frenzied treants charged from the shadows at them.</p><p>This was accompanied, shockingly enough, by a gigantic lance-wielding, plate armor and ocean blue cape-wearing woman coming to their assistance. Yda had scrutinized her at a cursory basis in the heat of the scrap, but now that they’re out of the woods so to speak, she can better profile their helper.<br/>
Warm medium grey skin, black hair with lines of scarlet in a braided ponytail on the posterior, whereas the front has loose bangs that dip to the right end of the forehead. The encasement she’s clad in is presumably steel, albeit with extra gaps comprising chainmail for joints and pliancy, and the girth of it betrays that she’s stacked like a brick shithouse beneath.<br/>
As for the visage, she’s of the younger sort, likely in her 20s, eyes holding a curious shade of purple, her nose is borderline as keen as her eyebrows, and there are traces of scars along it, the left edge of her jawline, to the side of her left eye and at the right ear. The southern left bounds of her face is additionally adorned with a black claw-like tattoo, but Yda nonetheless can’t recognize it. A guild or company of a sort, perhaps? And how godsdamn tall is she? Calmly above two meters, or maybe make that close to two and a half.</p><p>With their enemies laid low, Yda now diverts to this lady, who slaps her war tool to her back and pulls up to them.<br/>
“Hey, you guys a’right?”, a reasonably low pitch questions.</p><p>In seconds, Yda stands in front of the humongous girl, and opens her mouth in mild awe.<br/>
“You’re a big one, aren’t ya? Even for a roegadyn.”</p><p>Papalymo joins Yda’s flank and then groans testily.<br/>
“…Yda! Is that any way to address our unannounced and selfless aid in this matter?”</p><p>The hyur flinches, as if startled by the realization that she’s present in this realm of existence. Oh, right – manners.<br/>
“Uh…”</p><p>The roegadyn focuses upon the pair that she just fought side by side with – a pale blonde, pale-skinned and robe-clad lalafell with a monocle at his right eye, combined with a fine-looking hyur of brown hide, garbed in a low-necklined white-red jacket, white shorts and crimson steel leg-guards and boots. Her face is half-hidden by a mask, but it doesn’t obscure the blonde tresses that jut out. Fascinating choice of clothing.</p><p>The roegadyn then uncovers her own reaction, by laughing.<br/>
“’s okay. I don’t mind the looks.”</p><p>Yda clears her throat.<br/>
“Oh, i-it’s not one of disgust or anything!”</p><p>“I’m aware”, the roegadyn replies smoothly.</p><p>Involuntarily, one of Yda’s hands rises to her chest, and the two women smile at one another, a faint glimmer to them.<br/>
“Ahem”, Papalymo emits after a moment of consideration that these two had wandered mentally to a location he has no business in. “At any rate! I am Papalymo Totolymo, and this is my occupational partner, Yda Hext. Who do we have the pleasure of collaborating with?”</p><p>The roegadyn slides her right arm out in the direction of Yda, while tapping the fingers of the left arm in proximity of her own opposing shoulder.<br/>
“Put it there.”<br/>
With a brief intake of air, Yda draws her far smaller hand to the roegadyn’s. Her grip is as solid as anything, besides that her hand is invested in plate.<br/>
“Taewyda Shaurnaut, at your service.”</p><p>Yda has grasped the plated digits, but her mind is drifting from the tactile link, for she finds herself faintly lost in the violet of Tae’s gaze, pondering what the tone of voice told her.<br/>
“Taewyda…hmm. Haven’t heard of you, but you’ve got a nice one.”</p><p>“Heh. Cuz there’s an ‘yda’ in there?”</p><p>“What?<br/>
…oh, hadn’t pondered that. Well…”</p><p>But as she aspires to drag her own hand in reverse, something extraordinary and alarming occurs – Tae’s full arm dislodges and flies off, smack-dab into Yda’s embrace.<br/>
In her horror and mystification at this, the roegadyn broadens her sight, staring at the limb in the much littler hyer’s possession, and then once everything has silenced, she lets out a bloodcurdling shout, backpedaling and clutching the hole in the casing where the arm was.<br/>
“Aagggh! You…you ripped off my arm! You ripped off my godsdamned-“</p><p>Papalymo flicks his optics from Yda to Tae, flabbergasted and nearly without words.<br/>
“Yda…w-what…what did you-…”</p><p>“I…I don’t…” Yda gasps out. She can’t discover any response for what to do. How in the seven hells did she succeed with such a grisly feat? She’s got a well-built constitution of her own, but nothing like…</p><p>Only, their fears are in the short-term abated, with the roegadyn shifting to a hearty laughter, which sets their distress into more consternation, but of a separate kind.<br/>
Tae grins at them.<br/>
“I’m just shitting ya. It’s mechanical.”</p><p>“…excuse me?”</p><p>Tae heads into Yda’s proximity, tilts herself down, draws out the ebony-hide metal arm beneath the plating and taps the hull.<br/>
“Hear that? Completely hollow, ‘cept the parts. No flesh and blood.”</p><p>Apprehension surges on the lalafell’s countenance.<br/>
“It’s a prosthetic?”</p><p>“Uh-huh. I just disconnected it. Though it’s got a few more features than a simple metal one would, since it’s magitek.”</p><p>“Oh, thank the twelve…”</p><p>At this, Yda exudes a huff and looks up at the mammoth of a woman.<br/>
“Hey, what’s the deal?! That’s a deeply disturbing and mean joke!”</p><p>Tae snickers to herself, retrieves her arm and armor, and shoves it back into its socket. Yda here notes the thickness of the extremity, which adds up, to have parity with the flesh one. That said, the plates, the black exterior, the crafted slashes in the metal for the differing compartments and such, reduces it to stand out like a sore thumb. But then, Yda can’t discriminate whether Tae wants to cloak it. Probably not, by the looks of this…joke.</p><p>“Eh, I see your point. Still super funny to me, though. Shoulda seen your faces…”<br/>
She breaks up once again.</p><p>This woman, she’s…<br/>
Yda then distributes her ultimate pout at the lady and clenches her fists.<br/>
“Hmph! I realize we’ve only just met, but…”</p><p>She stomps her foot into the ground and lunches into Tae, in a shot at shoving her down the path. The hulking roegadyn doesn’t categorically stumble abroad, but her amusement does spike.<br/>
“Alright, alright! Ya got me. My bad for making you piss yourself.”</p><p>“…w-what?! I-…I didn’t-…ah, screw off!”</p><p>With the two of them messing about and Yda jumping her, Papalymo keeps a hand on his chin for a number of musing moments, taken up with what Tae went over.<br/>
“Hmm. Shaurnaut did you say, miss Taewyda?”</p><p>Tae parries a couple of bogus blows from the hyur monk, but redirects her purples fronting the lalafell down under.<br/>
“Huh? Oh, yeah, spot on.”</p><p>“That is…an ishgardian naming convention, is it not?”</p><p>Tae’s expression segues into a smile anew.<br/>
“You’re pretty sharp, huh? Right again.”</p><p>Yda extends her sight in amazement.<br/>
“Are you from Ishgard?!”</p><p>“Hehe, nah. I was born in Loezwhan, a lil’ town north of Eorzea, part of imperial-occupied territory. But my mother was, as it happens. She brought me to this continent. Well, adopted mother.”</p><p>“Ahh, now it makes sense.”</p><p>Papalymo nods unhurriedly and cogitatively.<br/>
“Indeed it does. Which would furthermore cover where you where you appropriated your dragoon combat manners.”</p><p>“By and large”, Tae allows.</p><p>Yda stretches her lips in a cheered respect and nods accordingly.<br/>
“Mm. It was all kinds exciting watching you take to the skies with abilities such as these. I never would’ve envisaged that a woman of your…build had the capacity for capers similar to that!”</p><p>Tae grins and sets a hand on her own waist.<br/>
“Oh you haven’t even seen what’s in the orbit of my peak moves, buddy.”</p><p>But on his end, Papalymo stares at Tae with a hardened focus.<br/>
“Hmm…there is something about you. I sense a…familiar factor. But what…?”</p><p>The dragoon cocks her head sideways.<br/>
“What was that?”</p><p>He pursues this element of rumination for a scattering of seconds and then shrugs to himself.<br/>
“Ah, never mind. Just a scholar’s head-scratching.”</p><p>Yda is jumbled by what he is hinting at as well, but she shakes it off and then tunes them to a new topic.<br/>
“Uh, is it…would it be warranted to ask as to your arm? Maybe it’s rude…”</p><p>“What? Oh, not at all. I mean, I get that a lot, but from you, it’s fine.”</p><p>“When did you…?”</p><p>“Lose it? As a kid.”</p><p>Stunned, Yda lays a hand upon her own chest.<br/>
“You…you were harmed as a child?”</p><p>“Eeh…I reckon so.”</p><p>“…you reckon?”</p><p>Well, I don’t recall.”</p><p>“Ahh. You’ve silenced the memory, perhaps?”</p><p>“Could be. Too young, is my guess. My mom caught me on the streets of Loezwhan when I was like…4? 5? With only one arm, she saw how a bunch of the other street brats were bullying me. I held my own okay, but there were buckets of the bastard.”</p><p>Yda scratches her cheek.<br/>
“You were so small…whyever would they pick on you?”</p><p>“Never been to the harder parts of society?”</p><p>“O-oh, I…yes, I have, but…”<br/>
But she had someone to bulwark her.</p><p>Tae sighs mildly, not disappointed per se, but in a tone of all too heavy consciousness of what life entails.<br/>
“Out there on the streets…fairness ain’t a factor. You do what you must to get by. That makes you tough, and sometimes that toughness…gets to influence their attitudes. Besides, I’m big even for my kind, like ya noticed, and some of ‘em didn’t love that.<br/>
But anyway, my mom figured she’d give me a hand. Probably a good call, as that lot coulda cracked my head open if they felt like it. I was merely being stubborn.”</p><p>“Oh dear…”, says Yda with a distraught aspect to her.</p><p>This induces a chuckle in Tae.<br/>
“Hey, what’re ya doing looking so fearful for? That was literally two decades back. Ancient history. Mom picked me up, raised me and taught me how to be a dragoon. Happy endings for everyone.”</p><p>Yda fiddles slightly, brushing her neck.<br/>
“I…yeah, suppose you’re right. Sorry.”<br/>
Somehow, it reminded her of an event in her own ill-lucked subsistence, but not on the same level.</p><p>Plausibly interpreting this personally, Papalymo interjects.<br/>
“Well then, with this little riddle out of the way at this moment in time, I surmise that we should enact our egress. But we offer our gratitude to you, miss Shaurnaut, and the best of luck in your ensuing projects.”</p><p>And to that end, Yda extricates herself from the mopes and replenishes her sunnier disposition.<br/>
“Oh eh…yes! Thank you, earnestly, for acting on this. We won’t forget it!”</p><p>“It would be pertinent for you to revisit your employer and relay to them what we’ve endured.”</p><p>Tae links her arms and dips her head at the lalafell.<br/>
“I’ll concede to that. But given the chance that you two push your luck once more, hit me up. Gonna be in this segment of Eorzea for a stint, so I’ll be free.”</p><p>This open invitation for devoting further time together apparently revitalizes Yda somewhat and she levels her hands at her hips, taking in the view of Tae’s purples.<br/>
“You know…I’d be inclined to do that. Perhaps the future holds an opportunity for us to spar then, to…better gauge your skills.”</p><p>Tae is ostensibly piqued via such a curious and…physiological prospect, loosing a coltish wink of her own.<br/>
“You’re on.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <i>Oh yeah, my Yda isn't white, as you may have discerned. Since it's revealed her father isn't in StB and nowhere is it stated that she's adopted (or that he's "got a tan" or whatever, as some people excuse it). So I'm adapting her appearance to fit this</i>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Anachronistic</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <i>This is during the initial MSQ storyline of La Noscea</i>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The compressed dust in the air, the dim lighting, trudging into dank and dim caverns in the deep of night, fire off her weapon against the rampant beasts of the plains. This wasn’t what Joltin had projected in the process of taking this most recent job to La Noscea. She’d been promised a choice haul and an easy score, but with the facts in hand, she gets a flavor of being double-crossed. </p><p>Except…the random encounter she gained in the course of this devious sidetrack has done some to pacify her grouchy mood. Peering to the left at the batch of unstrung goobue which they picked off together, Joltin’s node is perched onto the miqo’te lady kneeling by them – tan-colored skin, barely neck-length white hair with slender ears on top, intelligent green eyes with slitted pupils, and a round and soft face which leaves Joltin’s heart squishy. The somewhat decent proportions of her frame is clad in a white tunic evincing a clutch of outlandish sigils and marks which she’s never witnessed prior to this day, blue casual pants and durable boots. </p><p>Rising to her feet, the miqo’te inspects the instrument she fetched from the fallen.<br/>
“Hmm, peculiar. I could swear I’ve seen this type of tool before – a rope-cutting instrument, if I’m not mistaken.”<br/>
In the rear of the cave they’re standing inside, a stone is erected, etched with letters and symbols which Joltin doesn’t recognize. The other lady regards them now.<br/>
“’I am the waves that bear. I am the winds that guide. I am the evening stars. I am the morning sky. I am born of the sea. And there I shall die.’” The sightly countenance is pulled to her once more. “This is what reads on this stone – a sailor’s requiem. Poetic, some might conceive, and compatible with the citizens of Limsa Lominsa no doubt.” She enlaces her arms, banks her head, and smiles with a tad of mystery. “But you aren’t from Limsa, are you?”</p><p>In her own head, Joltin can’t deny that this lady seems to talk nerdy…but is mega cute.<br/>
The features the miqo’te heeds may induce similar commentary. Joltin is but nominally shorter than this cat, but her form beneath the purple jacket with white sleeves and black leather gloves, as well as tight ebony-tinted pants, is a generous one – curvy for sure, moderately chubby too some might deem. But the most overt portions which affect her are the dark scales that coat the margins of her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, with edges like jagged spikes, down sectors of her neck and upper chest, coupled with a few centimeters thick horns that protrude from her skull where ears are on several other races of this world. The lighter medium brown of her surface contrasts the yellow eyes quite well, and to conclude it, a shorter blue haircut somewhat stylishly slanted to the right, its outer confines dyed in white. </p><p>Joltin grins and spins the gold-adorned steel revolver in her hand once.<br/>
“Why’d you say that, pretty girl?”</p><p>“Well, for starters, your combat maneuvers are quite…unorthodox. That pistol is beyond the ordinary firearms which are implemented by the pirates of this region. Nigh imperial, in fact…<br/>
Plus, I noticed the pack at your hip…”</p><p>What she’s referring to is a tinier metallic device, a square piece of machinery outfitted with various lights, buttons and protrusions.<br/>
“Heh, yeah. Just a lil’ gift from the guy who built this stuff, ya see.”</p><p>“Mm, puzzling and intriguing indeed. Moreover, I couldn’t help tracing the boxes stashed away in the corner to my left, in a fashion which is awfully resembling those of smugglers. You wouldn’t possibly be here to retrieve them, would you?”</p><p>This nod is articulated with striking entertainment in its delivery, and therefore Joltin finds it open for interpretation whether this woman is pulling her leg or not.<br/>
“Smuggling? Whoa now, I got nothing to do with any of that under-the-counter bunk. My business is strictly legal. Swear it to Nald’thal!”</p><p>“Hm hm. Is that so?”<br/>
But the miqo’te unleashes the mild tightening here with a snort, a lifting of one peak of her lips and a wiggle her head.<br/>
“It’s just as well then that the crux of my enterprise within this space is not to chase imminent misdemeanants in the land of pirates. Better still, I will offer my heartfelt thanks for your opportune support in the tumble we arrived in.”</p><p>Phew, Joltin can breathe easier with this eventuality scraped off. She tows up one of her hands, shapes it into a phony gun and blasts it ironically at the miss, tethered to a wink.<br/>
“No problem, cutie.”</p><p>The front of the lady’s hair is formed into two braids which line her face, and she flicks one of them in deliberation.<br/>
“It seems we’ve neglected introductions, haven’t we? You may call me Y’shtola Rhul. Who is it that I’ve been co-battling with and speaking to?”</p><p>Joltin seizes a couple of jiffies meanwhile to filter this Y’shtola across her mental processes, screening her posture, the tilt of her mouth, the interior twinkle of her greens. Joltin can’t mislead even herself as far as her reaction to this subject goes – she’s already getting a smidgen crazy about that the gods spared no effort in sculpting this lady into the picture of cuteness.<br/>
Alright, looks as if she’s slated for a promising outlook in this trip, so long as she makes the grade in the affairs of allurement. C’mon, Jolty, play it cool.</p><p>Next, Joltin makes her move to flaunt her motoric artistry and sends her pistol into a gyrating route framing her finger, attempting to exemplify herself in the form of a cool and nonchalantly competent gun-wielder.<br/>
“You’re in luck, girl. Got the absolute satisfaction of receiving the attention of the high-flying, gun-mastering, lady-charming sage of Eorzea, none other than Joltin-“</p><p>And it’s by this interlude where her game gets in contact with a supreme cascade failure – she has failed to diagnose the anchorage she keeps of the armament covering her finger. Pending a facetiously unlucky happenstance, the iron glides off her finger at the selective session where her digit is aligned with a passage which crosses to her face. The revolver resigns its traction of the rotation, whizzes onwards and smacks Joltin dead-on at her unguarded muzzle. </p><p>Recoiling and blundering in a pullback, she enfolds this fraction of her cast with her hands.<br/>
“…sonuvabitch!”<br/>
Y’shtola is blown out of the water with this development, her eyes widening.<br/>
“Agh…my nose! Fuck! Ah, shit, fuck me…think I just busted something in there…balls!”</p><p>Clutching her nasal area and angling to mitigate some of the intensive torment which courses down the range of it, the break isn’t as bad as she might’ve betted.<br/>
But she does receive quite a turn-up for the books in the shape of a pleasant and rousing noise from the miqo’te – she giggles discernibly. Which, granted, one could be slightly offended by, that she’d have a laugh at Joltin’s misery, but she lets the friction go untasted, by the flat-out cause of the harmonic tone of it. She can make no secret of that it…tickles a chord in her heart. </p><p>“You are a proper oddball. Miss Joltin, was it?”, she questions, on the heels of culminating her laughter.</p><p>“Hey, I’m not the one splitting my gut when there’s a lady hurting right in front of her! And yeah, Joltin… Joltin Dazkar.”</p><p>At the same point as she chuckles, Y’shtola nears her and nabs Joltin’s hand to raise her back up.<br/>
“Are you alright? Did you genuinely bruise anything within your nose or was that sequestered to an inflated reaction?”</p><p>Joltin exhales and loses the grip on the cavity, hoping to judge if she’s deceiving herself or not.<br/>
“Ya know…I’m not a healer, so I don’t have the slightest.”<br/>
She aims to measure her status with an extra step and nudges it, which she soon regrets upon twinges shooting along it.<br/>
“…shit. Ow. Well, that’s not refreshing, exactly…”</p><p>“Then one stands to reason that you ought to leave it to someone who outranks you in these contentions.”</p><p>“And who’d that be? You?”</p><p>“As a matter of fact, I am schooled as a proficient healer, yes.”</p><p>Joltin blinks and takes another look at the lady now, at solely a sprinkle of meters from her.<br/>
“…oh. Okay, uh…yeah, if you’re up for it.”</p><p>The unwonted…scholar or healer or whatever the seven hells she’s supposed to represent, makes headway to Joltin, and the gun-wielder doesn’t play off it for a start…but that is merely until Y’shtola marches in and clings to her position, no more than a meter straight ahead of her, give or take some decimeters, in all likelihood to better assess the harm. Which is expected to be a matter of course, right? To tell one the truth, though, Joltin has a disposition to…be rendered relatively distracted once exposed to attractiveness of this incomprehensible rung. </p><p>Mildly losing concern for the pain, she raises her sight and stares, practically ogles the fine lady. She roams the rounding of Y’shtola’s cheeks, the bend of her lips, the protrusion of the decent chest, her endearing white tail rippling and flicking left and right…mm. In her lifetime, Joltin has on numerous occasions been applauded for her savvy eyesight and aptitude at staying on target, and she would never be one to snub such claims, nor to let on that she does in actuality resort to it in order to uh…indulge her passions too. And it crosses her mind, or senses rather, that this sweet woman carries a gratifying aroma, albeit Joltin can’t place it. </p><p>Y’shtola herself has condoned this checking-out of her to go undocumented, or at the furthest uncommented, but it’s undefinable to Joltin if she’s conceivably attentive of it.<br/>
In effect, this conclusion is signed off immediately that Y’shtola turns this circumstance on its ear and arranges her hand to Joltin’s chin, brings her upwards to eye-range and holds her in a robust clasp.<br/>
“Keep steady, alright? I need to look you over.”</p><p>Joltin doesn’t reply, feeling only the accelerated impression of her throat swallowing. Goodness gracious, Y’shtola’s grip is so…firm. Certain and unyielding as you like, unspokenly giving language to her prescriptions. It subjects Joltin to a wonderment, or perhaps even a menacing <i>urge</i> to peg down what else she can bring to the table.<br/>
Images flourishes in Joltin’s psyche, of the miqo’te affixing her vision into the yellows of her own, shoving and pinning her against the scraggy cave wall, ramming her wrists above her, lodging teeth atop her neck just short of drawing blood, and driving a determined knee right down to her-</p><p>“Something wrong?”, asks Y’shtola, obstructing the daydreaming.</p><p>Joltin gasps in distress and unbolts her eyelids, her view dashing from end to end panickily, ahead of settling upon a disconcerted and blissfully unsuspecting Y’shtola, who’s abiding with her handgrip and spraying Joltin’s nose with white magicked light.<br/>
“E-eh…I…n-no! No no! I uh…I’m just…ahem, hehe. I’m good, yeah. Totally okay.”</p><p>Possibly repeating her bafflement of Joltin’s quaint antics, Y’shtola shakes her head and casts it off.<br/>
In the midst of stitching together the cracked tissue upon Joltin’s nose, which to be fair constituted the greatest of the minor rupture chiseled by the gun’s impact, Y’shtola sizes up the woman who’s on the scaly side, to some extent in all cases.<br/>
“I must say, it is an unusual day where au ra gad about in the limits of this country.”</p><p>Joltin arches one of her eyebrows with a marginal haze to her, but this is merely a stand-in for a small smile in the ensuing seconds.<br/>
“I’m impressed. Lotta folks in Eorzea are given to be startled or posed, the second I pay a visit.”</p><p>“As it happens, I do not originate from Eorzea, but Sharlayan.”</p><p>“Shar…layan? Where’s that?”</p><p>The miqo’te lets a trickle a blithely puff exit her mouth.<br/>
“I’m astonished you wouldn’t have heard of it. My experience is that all too lavish count of people here have some knowledge.”</p><p>“Well, could say that geography isn’t the subject I’m topnotch in.”</p><p>“Nor is steady hands, apparently.”</p><p>“…hey! This was…bad luck.”</p><p>Y’shtola chuckles afresh, heating Joltin’s face to an extent.<br/>
“Just the same, Sharlayan is an island nation to the north, where the foremost of the citizenry commit their lives to studying, scientific undertakings and a grander imagining of the world. And what’s more, in my education, I was permitted to transfer and voyage to a not insignificant quantity of differing states past our borders. I’ve witnessed more garlean troops than the units they’ve swept into Eorzea, and between stations and destinations a tinge of miles to the east, I found myself facing your sort. Ah, or more to the point, other au ra.”</p><p>Joltin nudges her lips together and litters the hall with a dim whistle.<br/>
“My my…cute <i>and</i> worldly-wise. What a catch you are.”</p><p>Y’shtola contracts her eyes halfway, her lips delineating a smirk that’s on the one hand engrossed, but on the other reflects a tone that says ‘Don’t’.<br/>
“And what of you? Such as I’ve now painted our image, au ra do not hail from Eorzea. Or the coeurl’s share of them do not.”</p><p>“Nope, they sure don’t.”</p><p>“Then which font might it have been which you treaded from, if I may ask?”</p><p>“Didn’t tread, I sailed.”</p><p>“And which land was it that this boat set sail from? The east?”</p><p>“Somewhere ‘round those rocks, yeah.”</p><p>And so, over a few seconds, Y’shtola sends her another wry expression, but one that is yielding to a mold of a rout. It doesn’t lie in her cogent powers to heave this explanation out of Joltin, patently.<br/>
“Alright, as you wish. Keep your secrets.”</p><p>“But I’ll slide you this one – you got it straight that I don’t board with the pirates of Limsa.”</p><p>“I see. Then what brought you to La Noscea?”</p><p>“Eh, ya know the deal – business, mainly. Doing some gigs for a couple of uh…localized parties. They always need bodies.”</p><p>Y’shtola eyes the container set astray into the hollow to the verge of the room again, and though Joltin’s lips are sealed, Y’shtola has by now a pretty decent notion of that she didn’t misfire.<br/>
“Not unreasonable. But Limsa is not everyone’s favorite destination.”</p><p>“In my prof-…uh, in my…area of expertise, it can be. And what else, it was the safest course of action after some dreck I had to be on the receiving end of.”</p><p>“Complications in your business?”</p><p>Joltin rubs the posterior of her neck, which denotes a slight indignity.<br/>
“Eh…just some…misunderstandings! Nothing monstrously major.” She giggles, but it drips of a subdued nervous state. She flicks her yellows to Y’shtola, and then diverts. “Ahem…”<br/>
Thankfully, the miqo’te is not piqued enough to poke the gunslinger for collateral details and in a matter of some moderate seconds, the healing spell she was sustaining tapers off and the light flees. To mark off her moves, she lifts one finger and benignly boops the center of Joltin’s nose, and it’s quite a welcome surprise for the au ra when the earlier pins and needles doesn’t make a reappearance.<br/>
“Hey, you got it. That was swift.”</p><p>“I did not sink all those hours into gaining enlightenment for naught.”<br/>
With this finished, she draws herself back and arranges her hair into its neat position.<br/>
“This turned into a rather satisfying discussion, but I must retire to safer shores and resume my mission. Take care of yourself, if you would, miss Dazkar.”</p><p>But rolling towards her takeoff doesn’t carry on farther than a sliver of meters, for Joltin cries out.<br/>
“Wait! Where’re you staying at? Like, my stop at this scene ain’t gonna run out tomorrow, or anything. So uh, if you’re in town in the longer term, I could…come knocking, and we can have a drink or so? Outta my pocket, of course.”</p><p>Here Joltin reads into the aspect which Y’shtola externalizes as though she’s chewing on this notion, giving currency to the hope that she’s in favor what can but be written as a date, after a sort.<br/>
But her prayers are not answered, for trailing a couple of seconds of reflection, Y’shtola’s response is reined into a cautious, albeit jiving smirk, and a tarrying wave.<br/>
“I wish you luck with your errands, miss Dazkar.”</p>
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<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Hiss astray</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Ul’dah, located smack-dab in an intersection of Thanalan, the deserty southern region of Eorzea, is as a rule famed and favored for its wealth. This is incontrovertible not merely in its hulking coffers that are sustained in the confines of the Monetarists’ vaults, the leading syndicate of the city-state besides the royalists, but also in its outer layout. One can efficiently guess at its stalwartness and opulence by the vision of the gigantic defensive walls, the even larger domed royal palace, the towers which girdle it, and its multitudinous accessible complexes that heighten above the barricade. Ul’dah oozes gil, the noise and fragrance of opportunity and agreeable profit for everyone incorporated.</p><p>Why is it then that practically the backstreets, alleyways and non-merchant front channels in full are chockablock with poor, penniless, disgruntled, discarded paupers and homeless figures with nowhere else to turn? A huge margin of people can ask themselves this, counting the Ul’dahns in this equation too, but rain or shine, a scarce amount do. Some envisage their appearance as an ineluctable substance, others couldn’t care less, while a third fraction despises their guts, believing the destitute litter and pollute the magnificence which the Ul’dahn forefathers erected.</p><p>What’s worse for the unfortunate is that in the past two decades, this contingent of ‘scum’ at the mud of society has inflated, in the effect of the defeat of Ala Mhigo in the east to the Garlean Empire. Those who suffered and were capable of fleeing did as such, and despite that some hit the forests in the orbit of Gridania, others chose to divert towards the business central, having stumbled onto the windows which were supposedly ajar.<br/>Except, this was a false hope. A condensed patch of them may have pursued fortune and happiness, but the colossal brunt had to languish in ailing, poverty and the crumbs tossed down by the rich. Some have been exploited for cheap labor by the monetarists and their brownnosers, whereas a surplus have to stumble over themselves to get by out of bounds, often forced to simply sit and waste away in the center of the streets.</p><p>This is an arrangement and unacceptable eventuality which hounds and troubles two youthful elezen who stride down the lanes of Ul’dah today, a pair of uncannily complementary pale-skinned and white-haired teenagers. At a glance, one could be forgiven for conjecturing them as next to the same individual, but there are noticeable albeit faint dissimilarities. For one, the mild bulge of the chest upon one of them, and secondly, aside from that they’re graced with an identical set of blue top and white bottom, they possess disparate hairbands upon their extended lanky ponytails – red and blue – plus their bangs are parted in opposite headings.</p><p>Alphinaud and Alisaie Leveilleur, grandchildren to the late and first-class sage Louisoix Leveilleur, have not themselves undergone this flavor of squalor at a single instance in their short youth, being that they were born to a dignitary of Sharlayan – Forchelnaut – and were raised in fair ease, containing an expression of expensive luxury. But unlike some inside their caste, or past them, neither have been suited to accept that not the whole populace can reside with a foundational comfort and safety. This is what was taught to them by their grandfather, that one must strive to render the world into equality. It was assumably what he died for to achieve.</p><p>This is the rationalization for that the setting and circulating context of Ul’dah – as well as separate footholds such as Ishgard – are not segments which they can find anything else than objectionable. The present trip to the city which is not their home locale is built upon a yearning to…sample the continent’s status and what one is feasibly able to make happen with it. Whether it is equal to being saved or forgotten. Some may well dispute that Eorzea has no necessity of ‘deliverance’, that its splintered city-states can hang in as they are, but these players underprize the disunity which roams unhindered within, up to and including the might of the encroaching empire. And make no mistake – Garlemald <em>is</em> closing around Eorzea. It seized upon this five years ago, and a second round is forthcoming.</p><p>That said, pacing this endemic outlet in Ul’dah was grounded in a clamor which the pair of them contained – to take the in the view of the refugees, to watch their destitution personally. Seeing them now, the chiefly hyur but sprinkled with a pocket of elezen, roegadyn and miqo’te, stray about this vicinity, lost and hollow of hope to tow themselves from this dreadfulness with unalloyed and extremely farfetched luck, sets a dolefulness in Alphinaud’s heart.</p><p>Alisaie, as perhaps natural with being his twin, is beside the altogether converse of the coin – she’s aggravated. Mad, even. As Alphinaud wanders with his arms hanging from his sides, Alisaie has hers wedged in a crossed pattern, frowning. Not essentially upon the refugees, but the state they must wither in.<br/>“Ugh.”</p><p>Alphinaud blinks in a faint whirl and glances at his sister.<br/>“Something amiss?”</p><p>“You know there is. This damn place…” She transfers to peer skyward, for the prominent roofs of the wealthy palpably distant above them, approximating shadows which blot out the sun.<br/>“The egotism and heartlessness of these…’monetarists’. It grinds on me. I can’t stand them. What I wouldn’t do to tear them from their gilded chairs and make <em>them</em> suffer some of this humiliation…”</p><p>Alphinaud, albeit conforming to an asynchronous point of view, does nod temperately. Still and all, he is wary of how his sister’s spirit is given to be.<br/>“It is a lamentable conundrum in a plurality of Eorzea, for a shame. Leaving out, perhaps, Gridania.”</p><p>“So?” his sister hisses back. “That doesn’t bloody make this right now, does it?”</p><p>“No, anything but. But this is the merit for what we’ve arrived to assess this nation thoroughly, is it not?”</p><p>Alisaie groans in distaste and peers aside from him.<br/>“Assess. Feel out. Consider. I would take kinder to <em>doing</em> something, than purely sit around and gawp at these dispossessed people.”</p><p>“I understand that you do, Alisaie, but we cannot-“</p><p>This is the precise beat where their conversation is curbed through the fault of a trickle of ruckus deeper into this byroad, which reaches Alisaie to expand her sight and her heart to flush with animation.<br/>“And judging by that bluster, the world is in line with me. Keep up, Alphinaud.”</p><p>She then falls to quickly tear at this vein of sound, leaving her brother in the dust. He gasps shallowly.<br/>“…Alisaie, wait! Don’t rush this!”</p><p>Scrambling down two blocks or so, the duo rocks up at yet another one of these close to limitless subpar hives of refugees. It’s in substance an extortionately cramped route, the itineraries of an apartment complex boarded by the only nominally better situated people in this city, with a plural of provisionary beds lodged down straight on the pavement, composed on the large scale of plain blankets, pelts or occasionally even worse, unattended boxes and planks. It’s all they have to go to in order to not lay flat on the stone. Which, granted, some are doing. But hey, on the minor plus side, they’re not <em>without</em> the walls, right? Where the monsters hunt and bandits roam. This is the express core of what some locals calls to attention, as if to legitimize this brutality.</p><p>And speaking of the highwaymen setup, the cacophony which the twins caught previously is produced by a stream of refugees cowering and moaning their anxiety and ache from the harassment of a platoon of armed and armored beings – the main of them in chainmail with strapped on iron or steel pieces that shimmer in bronze or brass shade.<br/>The twins listen to them speak and rumble, shoving some of the refugees about, lining them up or commanding them to either move out of the way or fork over gil. Money which they, tellingly, do not possess or boast at most a pitiful scrap of.</p><p>Alisaie glares at them, her fists tautening as she indexes that the suits of these people are pertaining to guards she’s spotted in the midst of her brief stay within.<br/>“Brass Blades.”</p><p>She has halted below some boxes a multitude of meters off, not too remote from the site of a tally of refugees who are hiding, praying not to get spotted. Alphinaud rushes to break by her side, tilting over to lay his hands onto his legs and pant fiercely. He doesn’t receive quite as much exercise.<br/>“The…the guard force of Ul’dah?”</p><p>“Mhm. Got my hands on a shred of rumors earlier, which called out that not everything was right in this metropolis. That the Ul’dahhn mercenary slime sail into these parts as they please, dunking on the outcasts. And it would appear such words spoke true, as they tend to…”</p><p>Alphinaud stands straight, glancing not at them, but bound for his sister with a cautious expression.<br/>“Alisaie…we cannot interfere in this.”</p><p>“And why bloody not? We’re just going to abandon these people to be beaten, bloodied and twelve knows what direr they can do? That’s not right, and you know it.”</p><p>“I know this well, but if we get caught up in such squabbles, do you have any arguments for that this will solve their plights after the fact that we have departed? The Brass Blades may re-emerge in greater numbers, and condemn these people in severer veins than we can hardly relate to. And besides, there are…not a lack of them.”</p><p>Alisaie snorts and overlooks his griping.<br/>“As if that would stop me.”</p><p>But whereas she looms on ruminating over the concept of pulling and accommodate these misfortunates against the wishes of her brother, in moments, she eases into a discovery that it is superfluous.<br/>Out of one of the diverging passages of this section, at the corner of her vision, she distinguishes a tall person who strides nearer – an elezen of cool grey-brown hide, short black hair, with a sliver of bangs sagging down along her eyes and nose. She’s clothed in the region of consummately black, some ilk of outlandish robes, with a tall collar, but faintly deeper cut at the front, albeit not to her chest. This is complemented by a steel belt and a single weapon – a blade with golden pommel and guard, black hilt and black scabbard with white inscriptions, mildly arched in its formation.</p><p>“Leave these people be”, she states, her voice somewhat low-pitched, accent assumably local. She gravitates and stand several meters in advance of the twins, obscuring their vision of her, save the stern. A hand hovers over the hilt of her armament.</p><p>In speaking, she garners the centering of the complete guard band that’s been gathered, eight of them, who stare at her with an intermingling of disbelief and a smidgen of aggression.<br/>“Excuse me?”, asks one of the comparatively older hyur men, tanned skin with a great big beard. “Did you fucking say something to us, ya lil’ rodent?”</p><p>But this lady does not budge nor scurry as the octet pushes in towards her, spreading out to the sides some ten meters removed from her.<br/>“Is your hearing deficient? I said leave them be. They have done you no harm.”</p><p>A member supposably of the Ala Mhigan refugees, a black-grey haired and mild brown-skinned roegadyn woman, calls to her.<br/>“Zabine, please! Don’t get hurt on our account!”</p><p>But the swordswoman, Zabine, does not relent, staring at the man who now sneers at her.<br/>“You little brat. Mongrel <em>filth</em>. Do you have any idea who you’re messing with here?”</p><p>Alisaie keeps a close eye on Zabine, putting a finger on her activities and that her hand cramps above the hilt of her blade – an emotion which virtually mirrors the younger elezen’s.<br/>“Oh, I keep up quite well with precisely who you <em>scum</em> are. But you are not commissioned with abusing the faultless residents of this city.”</p><p>“They are <em>not</em> citizens of Ul’dah. They are vermin, who pull into <em>our</em> homes and reckon they can hog <em>our</em> properties. We cloister Ul’dah from exterior threats, however the appearance of them.”</p><p>Zabine scoffs.<br/>“You are foul and revolting creatures. The monetarists may look the other way regarding your brutality, but <em>I</em> shall not be so lenient.”</p><p>“And you bet that <em>you</em> have a chance against <em>us</em>, do you?”</p><p>“You <em>are</em> going to let these people be, or you’ll have to answer to me.”</p><p>There is a span of silence once she’s intimated this, but they are not impressed in the slightest by it, distinctly not the man who roars in the first row, as the others imitate him.<br/>“You’re a bold and royally goddamn <em>dim-witted</em> little shit, aren’t ya? You’ve some slim lil’ hope that your blustering puts the fear into us, with that flabby robe and your dinky arse foreign sword? Piss off, runt, before I really get mad.”</p><p>To her acclamation, Zabine clings to a remarkable poise in her voice.<br/>“I will relay this to you only once – <em>Step. Away. Now.</em>”</p><p>“You oughta keep your ugly mouth barred, little girl, or we’ll administer it for ya! With our blades.”</p><p>“You will leave. <em>This instant</em>.”</p><p>“And if we deny ya – then what?”</p><p>She prehends the hilt to her steel somewhat wider down, and slants it in a bend to be drawn.<br/>“I will remove you.”</p><p>“Is that intimidation, lass? Onto the Brass Blades? The sentinels of Ul’dah?”</p><p>“No, it is not – it’s a <em>promise</em>.”</p><p>Despite the others chortling at her tightening yet again, the man emanates a sensation that he has had enough of getting diminished by her in his home turf. He frowns and prompts at her.<br/>“Tear her up and bring me that sword. ASAP!”</p><p>And it is upon this cue that the other seven extend their weapons from their sheathes, forearming themselves for combat. Zabine reflects this behavior, but it’s true that the Leveilleur cannot discern her face in so doing.<br/>“So be it – bloodshed it is.”</p><p>She cruises her slender fingers in the radius of the hilt to her elegant and nonetheless unorthodox blade – for Eorzean design, if nothing else, which it statistically isn’t.<br/>As she outstretches it, there are more pronounced sides – the fact that but one edge is sharpened for example, rendering it absolute that it’s an instrument solely forged for slicing. But belittling this young woman, in the vein of these people now, is a grave fallacy, which they pinpoint far too late. Zabine elects to give these thugs a demonstration.</p><p>Applying one hand alone on the hilt, the left clutching the scabbard, she stands fixed upon the spot and awaits her opponents to slide up to her. Amid the first one besetting her, a different hyur, neither communicating nor barely minding her, she responds equally. Prior to him narrowing the distance to her, she lunges and etches him, barreling a single slash smoothly at his waist. The man falls with simply one intemperately precise attack, even if not brought to his end. It was not intended to be fatal.</p><p>The next person in line, a taller elezen close to herself, tries out his aptitude at her right flank sporting an axe. But the swordswoman circumvents the keenness of it and reciprocates with a deed akin to what she expended for the first man – a solitary cut, this one by the right side of his torso, rising to the elbow.</p><p>The third actor, the sole roegadyn fellow, now with a spark of a scare in his belly, successive to beholding his comrades falter, hollers at her. But no expression of rage or faux determination shall prevent her – echoing the previous ploys, a single shaving heading for his legs, and he collapses. Thanks to how vigorously exact she proves her skill, some might believe she isn’t so much in a battle as performing target practice.</p><p>The older buster in the tail, watching as three of his men have been annihilated, motions at the lingering four.<br/>“Grrrr….cut this shit out! Go at her all together! Take her down!”</p><p>At that, Alisaie frowns and rises.<br/>“Enough of this. That’s not even remotely fair!”</p><p>But while she’s out to climb onto this clash, Alphinaud gloves her arm.<br/>“Wait!”</p><p>And it’s a stroke of luck that he does, for now, boxed in by four pouncing enemies, Zabine singles out the moment to get more serious, but in a fashion which startles everyone present. As opposed to stationing the pair of her hands onto the blade, she lowers it back into its scabbard. However, the magic-adept twins, able to experience the flow of aether, perceives how a hurricane of it currently charges within the elezen.</p><p>As soon as the quartet have run up to no more than a couple of meters astray, she unleashes her power, expressed with a manner of incantation.<br/>“Iaijutsu – Tenka Goken!”</p><p>A detonation of aether flies forth, shaped in the form of four white-blue lines directly into the ground and air, just as though she physically carved them. This train of attacks catapults on course for the collected quartet, slinging them skyward and bursting them out from Zabine’s vicinity, preceding their plunging with thuds against the ground. Connecting with the other three, none are dead, but wounded and interiorly scarred.</p><p>The hyur man gulps and steps backward.<br/>“Who…who the fuck…?”</p><p>Hearing him utter words, Zabine shifts her sight head-on at him, wrinkling her brow menacingly.<br/>“Begone, right now.”</p><p>He peers from side to side of himself, now comparatively alone.<br/>“D…dammit. You-…r-retreat! C’mon, get on your feet and head back to the barracks, on the double!”</p><p>Somewhere along their picking up of themselves and darting away, running for their lives, a few of them with blood spewing from their bodies, Zabine sedately and considerately holsters her sword and folds her arms. And out of the shadows, the Ala Mhigan refugees bail towards her, flocking in her ambience. They open up with gratitude and elation, some telling her they’re relieved she’s there for them, through thick and thin. She does nothing extreme to wallow in this limelight, other than smiling softly.</p><p>However, the leader distributes a mildly alerted manner.<br/>“Yes, we’re grateful to you…but this is going to get you in trouble again, Zabby.”</p><p>Zabine snorts.<br/>“Then let them run wild on me. You people have earned better than this.”</p><p>Considering that the coast is demonstrably clear, the twins exit their shelter and approaches her, joining the others. Alphinaud shines up at her, remedying his hair somewhat.<br/>“Well, this was inevasibly a dexterously executed maneuver. My sister had planned to fit herself into their struggles, but by all accounts, a suitable protector was already present. Very astutely done, miss.”</p><p>Reaching her ears, Zabine’s left one twitches and she reverses from the refugees, navigating her front to be pointed at the twins with dazed, howbeit engrossed eyes – blue eyes which they right now heed are slitted, measured up to some miqo’te. Her aspect is finely angled, her nose modestly denser and both ears given dark purple clasps. Underneath the left eye, a minor black beauty mark is situated.<br/>She crumples up slightly, and mounts her hardened features at him.<br/>“Who are you?”</p><p>Alphinaud stops short of her, and bends down, exhibiting a refined bow, hand to his chest.<br/>“My name is Alphinaud Leveilleur, and this is my sister Alisaie.” The younger lady restricts her own display to looking at Zabine, hand to her hip in a neutral capacity. “That was a most excellent performance you put on, and we are abated that you made your mark on these villains. May we wonder at the full name of the hero of the day?”</p><p>Having initially pulled her fingers in line with her blade, Zabine now chills herself and slides her hands into the contrary sleeves. During the passage of their dialogue, they furthermore mark the existence of minor fangs in the front upper jaw.<br/>“Zabine. Zabine Shaurnaut.”</p>
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